


Break

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Genre: Body Horror, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:08:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21582784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Kudos: 1





	Break

Noise, empty, meaningless static. It fills the mind and tests the soul. The lack of need, of wanting. The lack of ambition and dreams.

A doll would be a better replacement.

Simply wasting away resources with no results. Disappointment after disappointment. Trembling hands grasp at whatever sense of achievement they can get. Staying alive only to feel this cycle again and again is painful, and heavy. The wish to be bedridden, to be unable, to have some reason to excuse short comings. Tears that fall, continue to fall, despite the demands they stop. The endless wish to be somewhere, some place else, far or no where at all. The wish to no longer feel anything, not the weight of expectations nor the responsibility being alive gives.

But not a complaint is uttered. Not a single statement is told to another soul. There's no sense of trust, no where to belong no matter how many times it's sought out. The timeless "I'm here for you." The repeated "I appreciate that," accompanied by never sharing anything. It would be cathartic, maybe, to finally let go. But the issue is small, and meaningless. The issue is a hundred small, meaningless issues. The wrong phrasing, the wrong action, the wrong expression, all small, and most likely forgotten to the years. Yet they are the faces of the larger monster. The thousands of its millions of arms that weigh down and keep in place. The arms that wear away at the skin piece by piece. The nails that pierce the flesh. The teeth that bite onto the tongue. 

Therapy shows itself as pointless, "There are far worse" said time and time again. Everyone needs help, Truth says so from its own mouth. The crushing pressure of the Issue bursts the eardrums and Truth's words mean nothing. Comfort comes in equally little ways instead. A brand new Thing, a new Interest, something tasty, some quiet, some company. Its never the same, frustration takes over once Comfort doesn't work.  
Being cared for is both a dream and nightmare, a want and fear. The desire to be held, to be cooed to sleep, to have the oppressive weight removed. The horror of expectations, the feeling of never being enough, the nagging thought of having to give away. Give, give, give. Refusal is selfish.  
  


A blurry face in bed, the momentary warmth. Fleeting carnal wishes that are only half well intended. Words that pass as concern, but are empty. A cold fire that burns and stings, distracting the Issue. It doesn't matter if the face is never clear, if the hands are soiled with darkness, if there might even be a tomorrow. Moment to moment spent doing nothing otherwise, a chance at occupying the space is reward enough.Even if it results to nothing but pain in the morning light. A physical ache could never amount to the shackles that hold the body down to the dirt. A bloody nose, a bruised cheek, one day wishing for a severed arm, a broken rib, worse and worse.

On some days, the imaginary tug doesn't feel as real. Turning into a whisper at the back of the head as laughter erupts from friendly faces. Not once has "See? It's fine" sounded convincing. The days continue, and it all passes in a blur. Forgotten meals, words, moments. Pushed on by Time as it always does. Never stopping even for the strongest plea. Cruelty must run in the family.

Time races forward while the body lags behind. Thing after thing is left unfinished, never gotten to, left to rot. Plans unravel themselves as time continues to fall through the cracks between the fingers. Schedules never worked, no matter how hard of an attempt is made. The will to carry on and live falters when it wants to, regardless of whatever it destroys in the process. It always makes itself difficult to recuperate from.

Thinking is tiring. Decisions only feed the issues. Comfort rarely stays long enough. So many things that scream "give up." Surprisingly cowardice is the only one dragging on. The cowardice of harming the self, of death, of inflicting pain. Forcing the self to live on for another empty day. Wishing again and again something else grants the wish instead. There's a large problem with that, Truth pleads but who's there to hear it? Everyone's too busy, Truth knows they're only turning away. To face another distorted face. Another, another, another. Whether real or figments of loneliness, they don't stop. Nothing stops. Not time, not life, not tears, nor pain.

Maybe one day, Cowardice will finally grow tired, and the Issue will consume its long sought after prey. For now, the question rests with the morning. Will the body wake up, or will it dream away yet again?


End file.
